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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25354873">Where Were You When The Dragonborn Came?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl'>nostalgic_breton_girl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Ivarstead (Elder Scrolls), The Sleeping Giant Inn, Vilemyr Inn, Whiterun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:47:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,413</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25354873</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of encounters with my Dragonborn, by the more minor and unassuming inhabitants of Skyrim - those who met her, who spoke to her; who were with her, as she fulfilled a small part of her destiny; those who but glimpsed her, as she passed, and left a trail of havoc in her wake.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Marcurio</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Dragonborn Rising</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>From the diary of a Whiterun Guard who was sent to the Western Watchtower, one fateful day in 4E 201.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’ll remember, most beloved diary, how I said I was happy I had not been assigned to Riverwood, and happier that I weren’t at Helgen –</p><p>Well, forget that, seems nowhere is safe from dragons after all. How optimistic I was.</p><p>So I was just in the middle of a nice tankard of mead when Irileth comes running through the hall, yelling something about the Western Watchtower. I kept my eyes low and thought I was safe. But it turns out there’s a dragon attacking the tower, and we’re all needed over there. All of us. I say all of us, Friedrich and a bunch of others got to stay back. Can’t leave the Jarl unattended, etc, etc. Most of us, then.</p><p>How do you fight a dragon? you may wonder. I wondered it, when we were being paraded through Whiterun like we stood a chance against the thing. Not like we’d been trained for this sort of thing. I can give a bandit a nice run through the intestines. If the bandit were a hundred times bigger and breathed fire – well, that’s another matter.</p><p>But we went out to the tower anyway, and found it all ruined and in flames. Promising.</p><p>We were just prepared to pick up the pieces and go home, when there was the most extraordinary noise – like a thousand bears with laryngitis, echoing in the valley like nobody’s business – and then Irileth spots the dragon and yells at us to ready ourselves, as if we’d ever be ready for what happened next. Woman got out her bow and stood there rigidly. That Elf’s very brave or very stupid, I’ve always said. Probably both. Anyway I readied my own bow and looked up and that’s when I saw it.</p><p>A dragon!... if it hadn’t been Oblivion-bent on slaughtering everyone in sight, I might have been more impressed. They’re great leathery beasts, like nothing you’ve ever seen before, like nothing I know how to put in words. All shining scales and great gaping jaw and wings as big as houses. But I didn’t have time to admire it, we had to kill the thing.</p><p>Honestly it doesn’t bear writing what happened in the battle, I don’t remember a lot of it myself. It was absolute chaos and I wish I’d never gone out there. Soldiers yelling, soldiers falling, friends falling – the tower ablaze again, and crumbled – smoke everywhere, and the dragon breathing fire, and the scorching heat against my skin, I thought I’d boil alive in my armour, really I did –</p><p>I didn’t know if my arrows were striking, I know I saw some bounce right off it. Thing’s scales were like reinforced chainmail. It didn’t seem like it was being wounded, or that we’d ever bring it down. Anyway, the battle was just reaching a height when there’s a flash of lightning and the dragon yells and staggers, and there’s more lightning, and it’s two bloody mages just zapping the thing like nobody’s business. Honestly if I hadn’t seen them aiming I would’ve thought they were on the dragon’s side. We haven’t got any mages in the Whiterun guard, there’s Irileth can do magic but it’s not something she likes to put out. – I don’t trust magic, course I don’t, but I can’t deny they were helping quite a bit, the lightning was running over the dragon’s scales and the thing was roaring more than ever and it was definitely in pain.</p><p>They’d weakened it, and so the rest of us did more damage; but I couldn’t tell you what happened next, because when it fell it knocked a few bricks off the top of the tower, and one of them clonked me, and I was out for a good few moments despite my helmet, and when I woke up it was with a terror of a headache, and with someone shouting ‘Dragonborn! You’re Dragonborn!’</p><p>‘I... I’m what?’ I said, and I was almost pleased until I realised Ulfgar was talking to the mages.</p><p>My vision weren’t the best, given I’d been hit by half a tower, but I could sort of see the mages. One of them was tallish, an Imperial I reckon – had the smug face and the beaky nose for it anyway – and the other was a short woman. Ulfgar was getting all excited and telling the Dragonborn to Shout.</p><p>If I was surprised by what was going on already, I was more surprised, because I expected the Imperial to Shout, and actually it was the girl. I don’t know what she Shouted but it kicked up a ton of dust and sent Ulfgar flying and me skidding into one of the rocks that I’d managed to avoid before. <em>That</em> left a bruise, I’m telling you. – Anyway it was quite the sight of the day, hearing that Shout come out of that tiny woman, and I think it surprised her as well because she looked horrified and went to see if Ulfgar was all right.</p><p>She <em>can’t</em> be the Dragonborn!...</p><p>I mean, there can't be a Dragonborn, now, that’s impossible, surely? If there’s a Dragonborn it means something big and probably bad is going to happen. And I'm not judging, but no good Nord’s gonna want to put their life in the hands of a Breton mage who’s scared of her own voice.</p><p> I don’t really know what to think...</p><p>I should say, after she’d checked Ulfgar was all right (which he was, just his pride was a bit scarred, he was embarrassed he’d fallen over as easily as if he’d drunk half the mead in Skyrim), she saw me, and came over, and despite all the others wanting to talk to her she took off my helmet and put her hand on my head and I felt all tingly. Now I don’t trust magic, but I do have a lot of respect for restoration, and I hoped that was what she was doing. A healing-spell, I mean. Whatever she did, it felt better almost at once.</p><p>I don’t think the others trusted whatever she did, because I was carted back with the other injured soldiers and put in a bed with a bandage wrapped around my crown. Huh. At least I can say I was the first person the Dragonborn helped. Even if I was also one of the first people she blasted into a rock.</p><p>It’s a wonder I’ve written all this, I still feel a bit dizzy, and I’ve never written this much in my whole life. Don’t really know what else to put. Probably we’ll be told more about what’s going on later. Whether that Breton’s really the Dragonborn.</p><p>Eh. She seems nice enough. Not really like what I imagined a Dragonborn would be like. I think we all imagined some great towering hero – like Talos – all muscles and hornèd helmets and voice like thunder even without the Thu’um. And a Nord, if nothing else. With any luck Skyrim’s gonna be saved by a Breton and a mage and I definitely know a few people who are <em>not</em> gonna like that. All I can say is, she’s a dab hand at lightning, and she took down a dragon, so she can’t be all bad.</p><p>(Still wish it had been me though.)</p><p>That’s gonna have to be all for today. Shouldn’t have written straight after so much archery, I think I’ve killed my arm. Goodnight. It’s been a weird day.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The True Saviours of Skyrim</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Fianna, the cleaner up at Dragonsreach, complains about the Dragonborn trailing mud all over her clean floor.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Don’t you go tracking your dirty boots on my –’</p><p>She knew those two, the adventurers who had turned up in town, a good few days ago now; who had left two days ago, on an expedition, on behalf of the Court Wizard. A week ago, they’d been shabby, and telling crazy stories of dragons; they seemed not to have improved much since, and by the <em>Nine</em> Divines – look at their <em>boots</em>!</p><p>‘ – nice clean floor...’</p><p>They hadn’t listened to her, had traipsed past without even looking in her direction, and she’d just <em>cleaned</em> that floor!</p><p>Polished it a week ago, and cleaned it every day since, and now it was scattered with what looked like half of someone’s field. Dirt, everywhere; scuds of grass; and was that <em>blood</em>?</p><p>‘Just <em>look</em> at the mess you’ve made!’ Fianna said, holding up a big clod of earth, and shaking it at the adventurer’s retreating forms.</p><p>The left-hand adventurer – a Breton, by the looks of it, with a timid little face – looked back at her, and for a moment looked intensely apologetic, such that Fianna was almost convinced it wasn’t an act. But then she turned back, and scurried up to the hall, and Fianna was left to sweep up their wake with a few passionate shakes of her broom.</p><p>When the job was done, and the floor looked about tolerable, Fianna crossed her arms, glared in the general direction of the Court Wizard’s quarters, and decided to take her break.</p><p>She’d been taking her break for longer than anticipated, and drinking more tea than usual, when Gerda came running in shouting something about dragons.</p><p>‘Oh, don’t tell me you believe all that rot –’ Fianna started to say.</p><p>‘Rot?’ said Gerda: ‘what rot? You heard about Helgen, surely –’</p><p>‘Oh, I<em> heard</em> about it all right –’</p><p>‘And now the Western Watchtower!’</p><p>‘The Western Watchtower? Dragons? – Gerda, have a cup of tea, you look quite bizarre – out with it, what in Oblivion is going on?’</p><hr/><p>They weren’t trailing half as much dirt, the next time she saw them. The first of them, the Imperial, had been a little too enthusiastic with the boot-scraper, and had scraped a good chunk of his sole as well: but at least the mud was gone. The second, the Breton, wasn’t even wearing the same boots, she’d swapped them out for a pair of low indoor shoes. They had almost walked past Fianna without seeing her – again – but then the Breton started, and looked back.</p><p>‘Oh!’ she said, nervously: ‘I am most terribly sorry about your floor.’</p><p>‘S’alright,’ Fianna lied.</p><p>‘I will clean it next time, truly I will,’ she went on: ‘but I was... we were busy, this morning... I'm sure you understand.’</p><p>‘Oh, I do understand,’ said Fianna.</p><p>She understood, now that it had all been explained to her; she didn’t want to be anything more than gruff, still resented the mess, but it was wise to keep on her guard a little. She sniffed, and said:</p><p>‘Heard about the dragon, if that’s what you mean.’</p><p>‘Yes.’</p><p>‘And that...’</p><p>‘Hmm?’</p><p>‘<em>You’re </em>the Dragonborn.’</p><p>‘Oh!’</p><p>The Breton – the Dragonborn – frowned, as if Fianna had been wrong: but though she was small, though she was a mage and not a warrior, though she was dwarfed even by her companion, there was something about her, a spark in her eye, a note of power in her demeanour –</p><p>This was the Dragonborn all right. She didn’t fit the legend exactly, but the rumours were true, and Fianna would not even attempt to deny them.</p><p>‘You’re scared of her,’ the Imperial said suddenly, tactlessly.</p><p>‘Well, if you must know, <em>sir</em>,’ said Fianna, bristling: ‘I have every right to be. Why, she could set me on fire, or freeze me to death, or cast me halfway to Rorikstead – I have every reason to be careful.’</p><p>‘Oh!’ said the Breton again, quite mortified. ‘Oh! is that what you all think of me?’</p><p>The Dragonborn stood, silent; considered her words; could not quite voice them, stammered:</p><p>‘Oh, I don’t... I didn’t mean to scare you, I just... I have powers, but I won’t... Oh, you mustn’t be scared of me, I don’t want that!’</p><p>She retreated a little, and her arm went to that of her companion. Fianna looked between them, caught the mischievous glint in the Imperial’s eye, but the absolute honesty in that of the Breton. She could still see the Dragonborn in her, to be sure: but she was small, and sweet, and she had meant her apology, and every word which had followed.</p><p>And Fianna dropped her act at once, stood tall and firm.</p><p>‘Well, then,’ she said: ‘if that’s the case, I’ll take you at your word. The only authority I bow to is the Jarl, and just you remember that. And we keep these floors nice and clean, me and Gerda, so make sure you’re more careful, next time you come in dripping mud and dragon guts and the gods know what else.’</p><p>The poor little Breton stammered out some manner of affirmation, and instinctively checked her shoes for dirt. The Imperial was starting to look as if he wanted to be somewhere else.</p><p> ‘We take our duties as seriously as the Jarl takes his,’ Fianna concluded, when at length they turned to leave: ‘and we’ll make sure you don’t forget it, Dragonborn or nay.’</p><hr/><p>‘Well!’ said Gerda, when the adventurers had left: ‘you’ve got some spunk in you, Fianna.’</p><p>Fianna did not reply for a moment. She was still reeling a little, from the realisation that she’d stood up to the <em>Dragonborn</em>, and not been set on fire, or frozen to death, or cast halfway to Rorikstead.</p><p>At last she shrugged, and straightened her broom. ‘I’ve lived among people who call themselves important long enough. You have to keep reminding them sometimes who’s really running this place... Where would Skyrim be, without the servants, the farmers, the peasantry? They call themselves heroes, when the <em>real</em> heroes –’</p><p>And Gerda, who heard this just about every week, grinned a little, and began to sweep with a renewed vigour.</p><p>‘You’d stand up to a dragon, if it made a mess of Dragonsreach.’</p><p>‘Bloody right I would!’</p><p>‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Gerda said: ‘it’s hardly unlikely now that it’ll happen... Oh, won’t that be a sight to see!’</p><p>Fianna scowled a bit, but in good humour.</p><p>‘Almost makes you look forward to impending doom...’ said Gerda. ‘Now, I rather think we both ought to have a cup of tea, don’t you? To the Dragonborn, to the Jarl, and most especially to the castle servants, the true saviours of Skyrim!’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Dragonborn Comes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Lynly Star-Sung sings a popular tavern favourite.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Pardon me, milady,’ Lynly ventured: ‘but would you care to hear me play my lute?’</p><p>The newcomer started at her voice, glanced over her; then she nodded, and a smile played on her lips. Therefore Lynly took up the instrument, adjusted the tuning, began to play.</p><p>She played every evening, at the Vilemyr Inn, to the villagers for the most part, and the occasional adventurer. Here they all were, beginning to come in, spend the evening out of the wind: Gwilin, the beaming spirit of Ivarstead, a nod to Lynly, more heed than most people paid her; Temba, mind occupied and forehead creased by a hundred anxieties; Klimmek, with Fastred on his arm, no doubt against her parents’ wishes; Barknar, brow yet shining with the day’s efforts...</p><p>They spoke to each other, usually, or kept themselves to themselves. Their attentions were never on Lynly, but she had no hope of catching them tonight, for all eyes were upon the two adventurers, the newcomers.</p><p>An Imperial and a Breton, sounding like the Cyrodiil middle class, but wearing mud-spattered mages’ robes and asking how to get to High Hrothgar – now that’s not something you see every day in Ivarstead. The moment they announced their intentions, they were assailed by a whole outpouring of advice, as well as a heady afterthought of questions about who they were and how their journey had thus far been. While the Imperial – the sturdier of the pair – seemed at least willing to speak, the Breton was becoming extremely nervous, and only Lynly seemed to have noticed.</p><p>Poor thing! – she had wanted a quiet night before whatever exploration awaited her tomorrow, and she had got the full tipsy strength of Ivarstead. While she smiled, thinly, at her interrogators, and nodded along with her companion, she said almost nothing, tried to remain firmly in the background.</p><p>She looked round, saw Lynly, envied her, perhaps –</p><p>There was something about her, Lynly realised, after a moment. Perhaps it was the light, or the stuffy air, or the inspiration from the music that she played: but when their eyes met, she saw a spark in them, and saw her suddenly as towering, as some kind of great... heroine?</p><p>Then she was back, the small Breton, and the inn about her was bustling, and Lynly skipped a note in her bafflement...</p><p>At last, when the poor Breton was starting to look as if she wanted to be <em>anywhere</em> else, Lynly decided that she ought to do something: and so, with an affected cough, she changed tack upon her lute, and strummed the first chords of a song she hated, but which caught the room’s attention at once.</p><p>‘Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior’s heart...’</p><p>It had been a tavern favourite for centuries, on and off, if one was to believe the bardic histories: and it seemed all the more apt, now that the Dragonborn was gallivanting around Skyrim, the long-foretold hero risen at last. The spirit of this incoming age swelled the hearts of those around the fire, and they took a step back from their quarry, picked up their tankards, began to laugh and sing along.</p><p>The inn was filled with music, drunken accompaniment, and the two adventurers at last were left alone. Lynly smiled even as she sang, and looked back at the little Breton.</p><p>She had thought that the woman would be grateful for the interruption: but, to her surprise, she seemed somewhat flustered, and her eyes darted about the room, to all of the revellers, before settling upon Lynly herself.</p><p>And Lynly saw it –</p><p>The Breton caught her breath, cast another glance around; then, very quickly, her demeanour was changed, and she flashed the musician a smile of relief, of thanks.</p><p>
  <em>You’re welcome, milady.</em>
</p><p>The song continued on for several verses – more than were likely in the official version: Lynly was increasingly sure she was making it up as she went along, and so hurriedly went on to the final verse. Now the audience was getting rowdy, and did not seem in a fit state to return to their interrogation afterwards, and she was relatively satisfied with her job: and so, with a renewed vigour, she sang:</p><p>‘You’ll know, you’ll know, the Dragonborn’s come...’</p><p>Would they?</p><p>They would know, if there came one day the figure of legend: if they were greeted with the sight of some burly Nord, more muscles than sense, Shouting their way to victory in a poetic battle twixt man and beast; if the Dragonborn were <em>their</em> image of a hero, a hero who would make their unmistakeable mark upon Nirn before going straight to Sovngarde, and being venerated even there –</p><p>Would they know the Dragonborn had come, if the Dragonborn were a timid frightened rabbit of a Breton?</p><p>Lynly caught the Breton’s eye once, again –</p><p>No, they wouldn’t know. And they needn’t. She would not like it. But Lynly knew: the Dragonborn had come, and was quite the overturning of an expectation, but there was something about her, something deeply amiable.</p><p>It would be their secret, and Lynly would keep it, would keep that exchange of glances, the fire in the Breton’s eye and the quiet strength in her bearing. The saviour of Skyrim! and now when Lynly sang, it would be with a new vigour, it would be with hope, the Dragonborn had come!</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Delphine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Delphine meets the Dragonborn, and is most intrigued by her</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She thought she remembered them from a while ago now: the survivors of Helgen, they’d called them, neither of them so unremarkable as to be forgettable. The one an Imperial, the other a Breton; both of them mages, both of them foreigners. – Less foreigners now than they had been, but the Imperial at least gave it away directly he spoke, his accent being what the locals might call <em>offensively</em> Cyrodiilic. – And speak he did: quietly to his companion, then a greeting to the few occupants of the inn, and lastly to Delphine herself.</p><p>            ‘You’re wanting a room?’ she asked, quite wearily.</p><p>            The Imperial glanced about, dropped his voice. ‘The attic room, if you would.’</p><p>            If he hadn’t been so sincere about it – if stranger things had not happened – if the Breton was not crumpling between her fingers a folded yellowed note – then Delphine would not have believed it at all. The attic room, indeed!...</p><p>            She scarcely dared speak, lest a response disappoint her; scarcely dared breathe, in looking between them, wondering which of them –</p><p>            ‘The attic room, hmm? – We don’t have an attic room –’ a pointed glance to the empty rafters: ‘but the room to the left – that’s free, if you want it. Make yourself at home: I’ll attend to you in a minute.’</p><p>            At which invitation the mages nodded, feigned more knowledge than they had; and taking leave of her went to set up in the room she was indicating.</p><p>            And Delphine was left quite adrift, quite perfectly astounded, even though she had awaited it, wanted it desperately, from the moment she had heard that there was a Dragonborn discovered.</p><p>            A month ago now, when the Greybeards’ summons had shook the mountain; a month, and since then all she had heard from Whiterun were scattered rumours, chamber-maids’ gossip. To inquire too deeply would have been foolish; but she had managed to be optimistic, thought on her note, continuously. A testament to the privacy of the Whiterun court, that she could not even say which of the two it was. Neither of them looked like what she had expected, what the bards had sung of.</p><p>            Neither of them looked like what she had expected, because in the absence of any real hope, she had clung to legends and myths; had listened to such tales, such songs as the bards sang; had remembered what they had told her, so long ago now...</p><p>             But they had her note, and so they must have been directed to Ustengrav; and who might direct them there, but the Greybeards?</p><p>            She feigned a selection of innkeeping tasks, took a parcel, two glasses and two napkins from behind the bar; knocked upon the door of the room, came in, set the tableware down upon a small table; closed the door, and looked at the both of them, one to the other, trying to retain a composure befitting her former occupation.</p><p>            ‘Which one of you is the Dragonborn, then?’ she asked.</p><p>            And to that word <em>Dragonborn</em>, she gave all the lost grandeur which she felt it deserved; only to be surprised, despite herself, when it was the Breton who gave a squeak of affirmation.</p><p>            The Breton: and certainly Delphine had secretly wanted the Dragonborn to be a Breton, a kinswoman; but she had not expected – wanted? – the Dragonborn to be... What was the word? Was she too timid? too <em>small</em>?</p><p>            ‘I believe you are looking for this,’ continued Delphine, who had remained admirably composed: and unwrapping the folds of cloth from her parcel, handed over an intricately carved horn.</p><p>            And the Dragonborn took it, looked upon it quite startled; glanced up at her companion, who was regarding Delphine in something close to suspicion. They would have questions, to be sure. And she would answer them, if they would but ask; and then, and then –</p><p>            She must not get ahead of herself: her own demeanour was leading that of the pair, who without her cold assurance might have spoken foolishly, before they were out of earshot. – At least, the Imperial might have done. The poor Breton was entirely clammed up: stared at Delphine awaiting some manner of explanation, or at the least some form of order.  </p><p>            Which Delphine gave: said that they must talk, that they must follow her...</p><p>            Rather, she had wanted the Dragonborn alone to follow her: but she did not look as if she might be separated from her companion, and so with some reluctance Delphine bade them both follow. It was curious, how the fates worked: how she had wished for a Dragonborn who would at least listen to her, and got one who seemed as if she might be entirely subservient. Well! hopefully there would be more to her, once she was out of her shell...</p><p>            They went inconspicuously across the inn, and to the room to the right. It was fortunate that they had come by daylight, and not at evening, when the place was full of wagging tongues. – There Delphine, who no longer looked anything like the simple innkeeper as which she had posed, opened up her secret door, and led the pair downstairs; awaited their surprise on seeing her room, surprise which came quickly, inevitably.</p><p>            ‘This is a lot of cloak and dagger, isn’t it?’ said the Imperial: ‘who are you, and why did you have the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller?’</p><p>            ‘I shall explain, if you but give me space,’ said Delphine: ‘I had to make sure you weren’t working for the Thalmor... that is why I left the note in Ustengrav.’ At which the Breton unfolded the note almost instinctively, placed it upon the table. ‘Can’t be too careful. I knew the Greybeards would send you there. So! you are the alleged Dragonborn?’</p><p>            ‘I should much prefer,’ she said – and her voice was soft, soft as down: was she really the Dragonborn? – ‘I... should prefer if you called me Julienne.’</p><p>            ‘Julienne, then...’</p><p>            Julienne, the great heroine of legend: it scarcely sounded well, paired with this image, of a young woman – gods, she was young – who wrung her hands and could hardly meet Delphine’s gaze; who was armed only with whatever magics she knew, whose robes were tattered. And yet, and yet –</p><p>            And yet this was what Delphine must work with: that hope rekindled. And she <em>would</em> work with it, she <em>could</em> – she wondered if she was being optimistic, to see something more in her; dismissed this thought, knew there was more to her, there <em>had </em>to be. She scarcely knew the woman! and she had gone to the Throat of the World; had got through Ustengrav –</p><p>            Yes: Delphine would work with her. She liked the intrigued look in her eyes – disliked herself for it, but liked the fact that she looked perfectly in awe of Delphine herself; liked most particularly that she was a woman, and a Breton. Certainly she wasn’t the Dragonborn of legend. But she was the Dragonborn nonetheless. – It could have been worse: it could have been the Imperial. – Delphine would work with her, then: and oh! what things, what extraordinary things lay ahead...</p>
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